


In Snakeskin and Leather

by Onefalsestep



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Blow Jobs, Body Swap, First Kiss, First Time, Handcuffs, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Missing Scene, Post-Canon, Smut, Snark, footnote fetish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 19:48:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19257982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onefalsestep/pseuds/Onefalsestep
Summary: "Many people, meeting Aziraphale for the first time, formed three impressions: that he was English, that he was intelligent, and that he was gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide. Two of these were wrong; Heaven is not in England, whatever certain poets may have thought, and angels are sexless unless they really want to make an effort."Before Aziraphale and Crowley trade bodies, they attempt to lay down some ground rules. It goes about as well as you'd expect.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Will link the footnotes for easier reading as soon as I get a chance!

It took Aziraphale one hour, twenty-seven minutes, and thirty-six seconds to crack Agnes’ prophecy, once they got back to Crowley’s and opened a bottle of celebratory we-stopped-the-apocalypse champagne. He would have been quicker at it, normally, but in his defense his brain had only recently been reconstituted, and he was still trying to shake off the unsettling sensation of wanting to dress himself up in a little pink negligee and snog Sergeant Shadwell senseless.1 

“They’ll use holy water,” he pronounced, after Crowley recounted his melting of Ligur and they’d puzzled over the phrase ‘playing with fire’ for the length of two full flutes. “Holy water for you, hellfire for me. They didn’t get their war, so they’ll play it out in microcosm. Both getting to prove their tools are the mightiest.”

“ _They’re_ the tools,” muttered Crowley, tipping back the rest of his bubbly. “They have no imagination.”

“We’re lucky that they don’t. And we’re very lucky they’ll never suspect what we’re going to do.”

Crowley looked up, eyes hidden behind dark glasses. “Which is?”

“Switch.”

The demon understood immediately. “You mean…?”

Aziraphale nodded. The metaphysics were clear, even if what Aziraphale suggested had no ordained methods. After all, there had never been precedent: the idea of an angel mixing molecules with a demon was so reprehensible, so taboo, that even the hypotheticals had failed to be recorded in gospel or apocrypha. But otherworldly beings had the power to manipulate matter, and these bodies of theirs were, in the end, only matter. If they switched their surfaces, the angelic and demonic core of each would remain the same. Crowley wouldn’t wither, and Aziraphale wouldn’t burn.

“It’s never been done, angel.”

“As far as I know, angelic possession had never been done either, until today.”

“It—” Crowley squirmed. “It’s not as simple as changing hats. They have an impact, bodies. It’s why I look like this, and you look like—” He waved a hand in a way Aziraphale found vaguely insulting. “That. Like it or not, matter makes us who we are. We’ll actually be inhabiting each other’s atoms. That’s not without consequence.”

“It won’t be for long,” Aziraphale said, trying to quash his own unease. “They’re not going to let us get away with this. They may even be on their way right now. I doubt we’ll be in each other more than twenty-four hours.”

Crowley choked on his champagne. “I cannot believe we’re having this conversation.”

“I welcome other suggestions, if you have any.”

“Alpha Centauri?”

“Because that went so well last time.”

Crowley sank back onto the sofa. “What if we’re stuck for weeks? Months? They’re sadistic bastards, you know. Both sides. They could draw this out just to torture us. Let us think we’re safe, and then—” He clapped his hands together as though squashing a bug. “What if I’m stuck in the body of a middle-aged angel for a full _year_?”

“I am not middle-aged, I am _ageless_ —”

“You know what I mean.”

“Then we’ll need to talk about proper maintenance. Just in case.” Aziraphale looked down at his incorporation, feeling a rush of fondness for its roundness, its comfortable cushioning. “Mine, for instance, needs a walk in the park at least once a day. Twice if you can. Play it some Bach to soothe it if it gets stressed. Oh, and it gets hungry.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “It can’t _possibly_.”

“Well, no, it can’t, but it thinks it can, which is really the same in the end. It—look, just keep it well fed, would you? I’ll send you some menus and circle its favorites.” He clasped his hands in his lap. “Right. Anything I need to know about yours?”

Crowley shrugged. “Not really. If it gets antsy, play it some Queen to calm it down. Or wake it up. Or—really just keep some Freddie Mercury on hand in case of all possible scenarios, I suppose.” He glanced down at his skinny, swaggering form. “And please, for the love of Go—Sa—whoever—don’t put it in anything white. I think it might melt. Or have an aneurysm.”

“Unlikely to be a problem, as I’m certain you don’t own anything approaching that hue. And it’s not as though I’m going to go clothes shopping for you, dear boy.”

Crowley got a dangerous glint in his eye at that. He still had his sunglasses firmly in place, but you didn’t hang around a demon for six thousand years without developing a second sense for that glint, the glint that meant you’d probably have some considerable thwarting to do in a few minutes’ time. “Oh,” said Crowley, his voice somehow a hiss even in the complete absence of sibilance.2 “Now that’s an interesting idea. A _very_ interesting idea.”

Aziraphale harrumphed. “It is not. And you are not, under any circumstances, to put my body in any of your ‘greaser’ clothing. I have a reputation to uphold. I’m a local business owner, I’m a respected representative of the community—”

“Angel, everyone thinks you’re a Soho power bottom with kinks out the wazoo. The ‘respectable’ ones always are. Your regulars are all sure you’ve got a dungeon in the back of that buttoned-up bookshop. I hardly think they’re going to be surprised if you go in for a bit of leather.”

 _Leather_. Aziraphale shuddered. The thought was utterly obscene. Oh, he’d donned leather boots and cloaks when there were no better options, when decent fabrics like linen and cotton weren’t easily obtainable, but since approximately 1705 he’d stayed as far away from its constricting confines as he could. Crowley, of course, had always favored it. There was a period of the mid-‘70s where he’d hardly worn anything else.3

“I beg you, fiend, keep that foul stuff off my flesh.” Crowley’s eyebrows rose in response to the phrasing, and Aziraphale blushed. “I only mean—I have a closet full of very nice suits. There’s no need to put me in anything else! Besides which, I’d like to point out, wouldn’t Heaven become terribly suspicious if I suddenly developed a penchant for dressing up like a demon?”

“Maybe they’d assume you’d just decided to live a little. Apocalypse averted and all that.” Crowley grinned, but relented when Aziraphale remained stoic. “All right, yes, it’s probably safest to have you continue dressing like a Mark Twain impersonator who’s read too much Oscar Wilde.”

“As if there’s such a thing as too much Oscar Wilde.”

“Spoken like someone who definitely _doesn’t_ have a sex dungeon in the back of his bookshop.”

Aziraphale sniffed. “While I appreciate the endless witticisms at my expense, we are on a clock here, my dear. They could come for us at any time.” He extended a hand, letting it hang limply in the air between them. “Shall we?”

Crowley looked as though Aziraphale had just offered him a dead fish.4 “Shouldn’t we…take a moment? Say our goodbyes?”

“If all goes as planned, this isn’t goodbye.”

“Still.”

Aziraphale sighed, dropping his hand. “What do you want? They could nab you on a last drive if you’re planning to steal a car and go joyriding, Crowley. Pick me up the minute I step into Le Gavroche for a farewell soufflé. We must do this _now_.”

Crowley’s mouth contorted, and he whipped off his sunglasses. “Fine. One last request, then. To make the transition more…comfortable.”

“What, then?”

“Bubble bath.”

“Pardon me?”

Crowley crossed his arms. “Tonight. I want a bubble bath. A glass of wine. Silk pajamas. I’ve had a hard apocalypse.”

“So have I!”

“And? It’ll be pampering for you, too. My body will suffer from shock if it doesn’t carry on in the style to which it’s become accustomed. I can do whatever yours needs as a trade. Give it some vanilla pudding. Feed it some room temperature milk.”           

“Oh, for the—“ Aziraphale threw up his hands. “All right. I agree to your terms. Now can we do this? _Quickly_.”

Crowley’s snake eyes flickered as he extended his fingers. Aziraphale took a deep breath, and stretched out his own. They laid their hands palm to palm, letting them hover in space for a moment. Then the air flexed around them, awakened by their mutual will, and Aziraphale felt the building blocks of his physical form shift. Not the consciousness; not the soul. But the body he’d known for millennia, the only material existence he’d ever experienced up until renting space in Madame Tracy’s questionably attired form—that body was now sitting in front of him, blinking at him with large, round-pupiled eyes.

Crowley’s voice, when he spoke, was almost too much of a croak for Aziraphale to feel disoriented by the sensation of his own voice coming out of another being’s mouth. Almost. “It worked.”

“You had doubtssss?”

Aziraphale nearly bit his own tongue trying to cut off the errant ‘s.’ Crowley laughed, which came out as a very undemonic, high-pitched giggle. They stared at each other, and Aziraphale tried to refrain from indulging in the sin of vanity. It wasn’t as though he never looked in mirrors—bowties needed straightening, after all—but he rarely lingered. He’d had the same body for six thousand years. He knew what it looked like.

Still, there was something different about seeing it like this. From the outside. Knowing Crowley was— _inside_ it.

He swallowed. Crowley watched the movement as though the sight of Aziraphale’s Adam’s apple bobbing was just as fascinating as the pesky little fruit it was named for. “This…is going to take some getting used to.”

“Yesss.”

“Because—”

“I know.”

“I mean, I knew I was hot, angel, but—” Crowley waved Aziraphale’s own hand at him. “Just look at me!”

Aziraphale felt his lips attempting to press themselves into his usual prim expression, but they wouldn’t cooperate, somehow. They quirked, twisting into a grin. He clapped both hands over his—Crowley’s—whoever’s mouth, his next words coming through muffled as he tried not to react to the feel of _Crowley’s_ hands on his _face_. “Stop that.”

Crowley smiled a mischievous smile that looked positively seraphic on his new chubbier cheeks. “Why? I’m not allowed to flirt with myself?”

“It’s _not_ yourssself, it’s—” Aziraphale wasn’t sure why he got so tongue-tied trying to get out the word “me,” but to compensate he stood up abruptly. This didn’t help, as it gave Crowley an opportunity to not-so-discreetly check out his own ass.

“Right.” Aziraphale nodded as though he hadn’t noticed and _wasn’t_ blushing with the fire of a thousand hells. “We should get some sleep. Be refreshed and vigilant for whatever fallout there should be, come the morning.”

Crowley was attempting to lounge on the sofa, a look that didn’t quite fit on an angelic body that was utterly allergic to insolence. “First—bubble bath. And a glass of 1945 Mouton Rothschild.” He snapped his fingers. “You’ll find it waiting by the tub. Upstairs, first door on the right. Next to the bedroom, which you should stay in tonight in case they show up.”

“Are you serious?”

“As the heart attack we’re both incapable of having, angel. All the better for you, considering your love of the sort of food that would have a human your age on the Lipitor, stat. Speaking of which—” He pulled out Aziraphale’s phone from his jacket. “Want me to order you a celebratory meal? I’m not about to let you profane the svelte temple of my perfect form with fatty foods, but I’m willing to choke down some of the stuff on your behalf, if it would make your body happy.”

“Don’t put yourself out on my account,” Aziraphale responded, making his way towards the master bath. “Although…” He paused. “I wouldn’t say no to some Indian takeaway. Just a bite. Chicken tikka masala, bhindi bhaji, a few samosas, and perhaps some gulab jamun? Oh, and garlic naan, of course.”

Crowley tried to look disgusted, but couldn’t quite fight through the excitement lighting up Aziraphale’s face at the mention of his favorite dessert.5 “Done.” Aziraphale started to walk away, only to have Crowley shout out behind him, “Oi, and don’t forget—silk pajamas! Top drawer of the dresser.”

Aziraphale tightened his shoulders. Really, this was too much to ask. In the last few days, he’d been through discorporation, the loss of his beloved bookshop, and nearly the end of everything else in the universe he held dear. All he wanted was to curl up with a mug of tea and a volume of Whitman, but such dreams were not to be. Instead he had to give a demon a bubble bath.

He was not surprised to see that the Jacuzzi tub in Crowley’s bathroom was jet black and enormous. He was slightly more surprised to see that it was already filled to the brim with a steaming froth that gave off the fragrance of sandalwood and rosewater, a heady scent that reminded Aziraphale of a slower, more sensual world long since lost to the rush of this modern one. He’d been expecting Crowley to force him to bathe in liquid that smelled not unlike the terrible and ubiquitous body spray Crowley had invented a few years back, all synthetic sex appeal and minty aggression. But this was nice. This might even be pleasant.

Crowley had already thrown aside his jacket before the body swap, so Aziraphale started his disrobing with Crowley’s shirt. Crowley’s fingers worked automatically, swiftly, their muscle memory overtaking Aziraphale’s slight apprehension at this current task. They stripped off Crowley’s undershirt, ghosting over his stomach and chest as they brought it overhead. They worked the button of his trousers, pulling them off, and then his socks. And when there remained no other obstacle to total nakedness, they reached for the waistband of Crowley’s black boxers, and that’s when Aziraphale noticed—

“Crowley!” He was bellowing out the demon name’s before he even meant to, surprised by the force of his voice, which had considerably more carry than the one that rightfully belonged to him.

Crowley took his sweet time getting to the door. “Yeah?”

“You—you—” Aziraphale sputtered, the boxers now pooled around his ankles as he tried not to look too closely at the appendage that caused all the fuss. “You _made_ an _effort_.”

Crowley coughed. “Oh, right. That. I suppose I did do, yeah.”

“You didn’t think to warn me?”

“Well, I didn’t think you’d be so shocked! You lived through the ‘60s, didn’t you? They were everywhere those days. Remember _Hair_? You loved _Hair_! Saw it twelve times, didn’t you?”

“I—yes, but I—” Aziraphale stared down at his crotch, and then thought better of it and looked up at the ceiling, squeezing his eyes shut. “Did you just manifest it to annoy me?”

“What? No! Had it since the turn of the twentieth century, at least. I got up after sleeping through the nineteenth and thought I might as well try something new to amuse myself.”

Aziraphale knocked his head back against the door. “It’s not a toy!”

“Oh, angel, you really need to revisit your Oscar Wilde.”

A terrible thought occurred to Aziraphale then, and he turned towards the door, trying to convey his glare through the wood. “Crowley. Let me make one thing clear. While you are in my body, don’t—under absolutely no circumstance are you allowed to—”

There was a long moment of silence, and then disconcertingly gleeful laughter. “Oh, _Aziraphale_. You know, I hadn’t even thought of that, but now that you mention it—”

Aziraphale yanked open the bathroom door before he could think better of it. “Crowley. Don’t.”

Crowley, through Aziraphale’s eyes, took in the full length of him. Aziraphale was horrified to see a blush, pale pink and virginal as an unsullied sunrise, start to spread over Crowley’s cheeks. And he was equally horrified to feel himself—a very new and insistent part of himself—stand to attention as he took in the sight of his old body.

He’d never experienced the sensation himself, but the signs were clear enough: Crowley’s body was experiencing instant, throbbing arousal.

He quickly slammed the door. “Angel.” Crowley’s voice was softer now. “You’ll learn to control it. We shouldn’t be in this situation long, anyway. It’s not—it isn’t always like that. I promise.”

Aziraphale didn’t trust himself to reply. Instead he kicked off the boxers, walking to the tub to partake in the promised glass of wine Crowley had set by the tub. It didn’t help his plight; the rich, red liquid slid down his throat, an opulent swallow that sent frissons of bliss down every one of his nerve endings. It wasn’t as though he abstained from pleasures of the flesh: he ate, he drank. He’d even gotten massages.6 But this, all of this wanting and stimulation, was on a different level. He couldn’t fathom how Crowley functioned like this all the time.

He heard Crowley’s footsteps move away from the door. Gingerly, he lifted up a foot, plunging it carefully into the bubbling bath. He shivered as the foaming liquid, propelled by the jets Crowley had been sure to turn on, caressed his skin and tickled the hair on his leg, and moved to submerge other, sinking into the mixture with an irrepressible, full-body shudder of ecstasy.

Perhaps, he reflected as he indulged himself with the most wanton abandon he’d displayed in several eons of existence, this was the final step in the demon’s nefarious plan. Wait for the apocalypse to wear down Aziraphale’s defenses. Line up circumstances so that they exactly coincided with the prophecies of an eccentric 17th century witch. Tempt Aziraphale into Falling, and earn his way back into Hell’s good graces7 with an angel’s immortal soul in hand.

It seemed unlikely, but then, everything about this week had seemed unlikely. Everything about this universe seemed unlikely, when you came right down to it.

And really, thought Aziraphale, his eyelids fluttering shut as he soaked in the warmth and intoxication suffusing his form, all things considered, if he had to go, he had to admit that this wasn’t a half-bad way to Fall.

 

* * *

The next morning was predictably awkward. It came both too soon and not soon enough: they barely got any rest, and Aziraphale, after following Crowley’s sleepwear instructions to the letter, found himself unable to change position without folds of onyx silk rubbing his skin in a disturbingly distracting fashion. He also hadn’t managed to will away Crowley’s body’s reaction to Aziraphale’s body, and couldn’t do much of anything about it: even if he’d been willing to consider the possibility of taking care of the problem himself, it would be a violation of Crowley’s consent, surely. And the thought of going downstairs to ask Crowley for his _permission_ to—to—

Aziraphale’s brain refused the logical conclusion of the thought, even as the perversion seemed to heighten Crowley’s body’s own masochistic enjoyment of the quandary. The bedroom was of course absent of books, and so Aziraphale had no choice but to stare at the ceiling, half-hoping the Hellish and Heavenly authorities _would_ show up to relieve him of his distress.

Once the dawn made it acceptable for him to get dressed and escape the bedroom, he went out to find Crowley on the sofa, already awake and, blessedly, fully clothed. “Sleep well?” he asked Aziraphale, and if he was teasing, none of his usual slyness came through via Aziraphale’s guileless form.

“Well enough.” Aziraphale stood awkwardly a few feet away from Crowley, unable to quite make eye contact. “I suppose we should—I mean, they might suspect if we spend too much longer here. So—”

“We go our separate ways.”

Aziraphale did meet his gaze at that. “Only for a little while. Enough so they don’t think we’re scheming.”

“How long?”

“A few days?” It was strange, he thought, to look at his own face and not be able to read exactly what was happening on it. He could tell, though, that it wasn’t good. “A few hours, then. Let’s meet at the park at 2. Make ourselves obvious targets. If we do it there, they might believe we really think ourselves in the clear.”

“All right.” Crowley got to his feet with unaccustomed clumsiness. “Well then.”

“Well.” Aziraphale felt like there was something else he should say. Something that eluded him. Some sentiment that was even harder to shape when he wasn’t even speaking with his own tongue.8 “See you later.”

Crowley nodded stiffly. “See you.” He turned on his heel, attempting to slink out of the flat in typical serpentine fashion, and promptly fell over his feet.

Aziraphale sighed. They were doomed.

* * *

Eventually, after a minor lesson in movement that felt like a dance class gone wrong,9 Crowley managed to make his way out of the flat. Aziraphale stood in the silence for a long moment, paralyzed by the surreality of the situation. He’d never set foot in Crowley’s flat before last night, always meeting the demon at the front door if they had an appointment. Now he was here alone, in Crowley’s body, no less.

He hadn’t done much of a tour last night, but now, with nothing else to do until their appointment in the afternoon, he let himself browse. The plants Crowley had often spoken of were just as lush and bountiful as promised, even if Aziraphale could feel their terror as he approached their shaking leaves. There was a curious statue of an angel and a demon that he tried not to linger over, because while he was certain it depicted a straightforward struggle between Good and Evil, something in the way it stirred Crowley’s loins made him feel the image wasn’t as innocently artistic as Aziraphale wanted to hope.

And upstairs, in Crowley’s closet, he found leather. He’d just been looking for outfit options. If he had to be in Crowley’s body for a week or two, he’d wanted to dress as decently as he could. He’d found Crowley’s familiar daytime garb, the low-key hipster look that he’d donned for the last couple of decades. But in the wardrobe’s extensive depths, and perhaps after opening some locked drawers, he found other items. A leather kilt. A collection of whips. And, dangling from a hook at the very back of the closet, studded, sturdy leather cuffs that he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of, picturing how they might look around an angel’s pale, unblemished wrist. He couldn’t tell anymore if the imagining was one of Crowley’s body’s devising, or his own.

He fled the room, leaving as little evidence of his snooping as he could, and considered whether he could conceivably stay in a freezing cold bath until 1:45 P.M precisely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] He had remained blessedly ignorant of varieties of lingerie in his long existence, and was now dismayed to find he had a complete catalogue of women’s undergarments in his head, most of the type that had reached their height of popularity around 1953. 
> 
> [2] Crowley had never needed an “s” to turn words into a hiss. Examples of perfectly ordinary terms that Aziraphale had heard him turn positively snakelike included “pineapple,” “George Michael,” and “cricket.”
> 
> [3] He had in fact worn very little in general at the time, and Aziraphale finally had to put his foot down around ’78 and insist he could not be seen in public with Crowley unless he wore a jacket over his torn tank tops and stopped turning up in spiked collars. The looks they received at some of Aziraphale’s favorite restaurants before those roles didn’t bear remembering.
> 
> [4] An expression that might not mean as much in Crowley’s case. Some of his best friends in Hell were piles of dead fish.
> 
> [5] Well, one of his favorite desserts. Well, top ten, at least. There had been a lot of millennia, and a lot of fabulous sweet things to try. It was just cruel to ask him to narrow them down.
> 
> [6] One massage. Fully clothed. At a 5-minute station at the mall.
> 
> [7] Or whatever you called it when Hell wanted to torture you a little less than they wanted to torture everything else in existence.
> 
> [8] Crowley’s tongue had been another problem throughout the long night. Every time Aziraphale absently ran it over his own lips, it was distracting. It was mobile and quick in a way Aziraphale’s own tongue wasn’t, and he didn’t like the sensation at all, even if Crowley’s body certainly seemed to.
> 
> [9] Which included, in Aziraphale’s opinion, every dance class that did not feature the gavotte.


	2. Chapter 2

**Following a Brief Interlude in Heaven and Hell, and the Daring Escape of Our Heroes**

Hell was just as unpleasant as Aziraphale had imagined, though he had to admit it wasn’t all that different from Heaven, utterly blasphemous as the thought might be. Both were filled to the brim[1] with pompous bureaucrats. Both had a staleness to the air that felt choking after a few moments spent in their environs. And both of them, above all, lacked all the best parts about Earth.

One of the best parts was currently looking back at him with eyes that were their own proper yellow-orange hue again. They’d wound up back at Crowley’s flat after their here’s-to-our-improbable-continued-existence lunch, and Aziraphale was basking in renewed benevolence for all mankind. Crowley might not strictly be a man[2], but Aziraphale’s current glow encompassed him too. After all, the demon had proven to be loyal and noble, unwilling to bend in the face of unrestrained infernal power. Maybe he’d never admit it, but he was good, good in a way that made Aziraphale tingle with the satisfying suspicion that he’d played perhaps more than a small part in the person Crowley had become.

On the flip side, though, he couldn’t deny that Crowley had shaped who he’d turned out to be too. Especially after he’d gotten deposited back in his own body, and found that unlike Madame Tracy’s lust for Sergeant Shadwell, some of the discomfiting feelings he’d had about his body in relation to Crowley’s body hadn’t entirely gone away. If anything, they suddenly seemed impossible to ignore.

All day, Aziraphale had been on the verge of asking a question. What the question might be, even he himself wasn’t sure, until he heard himself giving it voice as they split another bottle of wine before the sunset.

“Why did you come for me?”

He hadn’t really intended to say anything. He’d been enjoying the silence, sitting in companionable enjoyment of the encroaching evening. But he’d asked the question, and Crowley’s nose scrunched up.

“Why did I come for you when?”

"The Blitz.” Aziraphale’s tongue was still fighting off the ghost of a hiss. “The church. We hadn’t spoken for years. I thought you’d lost track of me entirely. Why come to my rescue and risk discorporation yourself?”

Crowley was rarely, if ever, at a loss for words. But Aziraphale could tell, from the way his tongue darted out and ran over his lower lip, that he didn’t know what to say. “I was bored,” he finally offered, and Aziraphale saw the moment he decided on the lie. “Didn’t have much on. And it’s not all that fun doing your tempting if there’s no one around to give it a good thwart.”

“You were bored.”

“That’s right.”

“During the London Blitz.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale studied him. He’d just spent time in Crowley’s body, just as Crowley had spent time in his. He could still feel a certain residue of Crowley’s thoughts and feelings from where they’d mixed selves, a connection that even being back in separate bodies couldn’t quite sever. And yet: the distance between them was still unbridgeable. He couldn’t suss out exactly what Crowley felt, or why he was feeling it. He couldn’t pin down precisely what their comfort in each other, and their desire to push those separate bodies closer, meant at its core.

Because he knew what Crowley wanted. Crowley wanted to touch him. He’d felt that, felt his fingers twitch when he’d had Crowley’s hands. Felt other things twitch as well.

Maybe it was meaningless. Maybe that’s how everyone felt when they turned on certain physical functions. An omnidirectional lust. But somehow Aziraphale didn’t think it was quite that simple. And it didn’t account for the fact that Aziraphale wanted to touch Crowley too. The equipment might be absent, but the urge was not.

And that could be corrected. After all, it was a whole new world.

Aziraphale closed his eyes, just for a moment. When he opened them, Crowley was staring. “What did you just do?”

“What did I just do when?”

“ _Now_. Just now. You—something changed. I felt it.”

Aziraphale looked at him, letting his gaze linger. It wanted to, now. It wanted to run all down the sleek, slim length of Crowley’s form. It wanted to wrap itself around every delectable inch of his body, insinuating its way into crevices and curves. This was like sitting down to a meticulously prepared banquet of the rarest and richest foods in all the land, a spread that made your mouth water long before you’d placed the first morsel on your tongue. Aziraphale was a seasoned gourmand, and Crowley was a meal of the world’s finest $600-a-plate sushi.

Crowley’s pupils dilated, which in his case meant they widened a nearly imperceptible inch. But Aziraphale noticed, because he was buzzing with awareness of Crowley now. Now that he’d turned it on, he didn’t ever want to turn it off. “Angel.” Crowley’s voice was weak. “You—did you just—”

Aziraphale kissed him.

Crowley moaned, a sound like capitulation and protest at once. And then he kissed back, his tongue—his remarkable, filthily talented tongue—running over Aziraphale’s lips in a way that made the angel dizzy from head to toe.

He grabbed Crowley, pulling the slighter man onto his lap, and licked at his mouth, his hands greedy as he tried to touch all of Crowley at once. Crowley was gasping, writhing atop Aziraphale, his cheeks red, his neck flushed. “Angel—” he started, and Aziraphale tore at the buttons of his shirt, to reveal more flesh, to expose the chest he’d been so careful not to touch too much when he’d worn Crowley’s silk pajamas, when he’d lain in his bed. He knew how sensitive it was.

He bent his head, tonguing Crowley’s nipple, and Crowley let out a squeal. An actual squeal, and Aziraphale would have laughed, except when he tried it came out a growl.

“Je—Sa—oh my _stars_ ,” said Crowley breathlessly, sounding like a starlet in a ‘50s film.

Aziraphale gripped Crowley around the waist, pulling him closer. Getting leverage, so that Crowley could feel how hard he was. Could feel, in fact, that Aziraphale was now capable of getting hard at all.

Crowley’s eyes were wide. “You—you—”

“Mm-hmm.”

“And you want to—”

“I do.”

“With me.”

“With you.”

Crowley shuddered, and snapped his fingers. Suddenly they were no longer on the sofa, but in Crowley’s bed, naked as the day they were born.[3]

Aziraphale sat up on his elbows, out of breath. “You don’t think that’s a little fast, my dear? A little presumptuous?”

“Angel.” Crowley’s voice was practically a snarl. “It has been six thousand years. _Six_. _Thousand_. And if we’re all being honest here—” He glanced downwards, at the addition to Aziraphale’s body the angel himself hadn’t even gotten the chance to examine. “Well, I think we can dispense with the foreplay, don’t you?”

Aziraphale blushed, but pulled Crowley down on top of him all the same. The sensation of skin, skin _everywhere_ , was almost too much to take. But it was an exquisite torture, a feeling Aziraphale wanted to prolong and release all at once.

“Crowley. Crowley.”

Crowley was busy kissing his way down Aziraphale’s stomach, on his way to the angel’s doughy thighs. “Mmph?”

“Cuffs.”

“What?”

“The—uh. The other day I might have—in your closet—that is to say—” Aziraphale fumbled until his desperation got the better of him. “Look, would you please just tie me up?”

Crowley froze, raising his uncanny eyes from the curve of Aziraphale’s hip. “Say that again.”

Aziraphale spoke more surely this time, though not without an edge of begging. “Please, Crowley. Tie me up.  _Please,_ darling. I want you to have you way with me.”

Crowley gaped, but a moment later the requested cuffs appeared in his hand. He looked at them for a moment as though startled to find them there, but then slunk up Aziraphale’s body, pulling his right hand up to pin it against the ebony bed post. “You know I could do anything I wanted to,” he whispered in Aziraphale’s ear, nuzzling his face against his cheek as he fastened the strap.

“I know.”

The cuff pulled against Aziraphale’s wrist, and he had to admit he’d been wrong about leather. The material binding him to Crowley’s bed felt deliciously supple and smooth. He wouldn't mind it wrapped around his ankles, or strapped across his chest, heightening the sensation, the new tension and _want want want_  thrumming through his body as he gave himself over to the demon who he'd realized, somewhere between the end of the world and lunch at the Ritz, that he was utterly and eternally in love with.

Crowley took hold of Aziraphale’s other hand, threading his fingers through Aziraphale’s as he brought it up against the opposite post. “You’re at my mercy, angel. I could do _anything_ to you.”

“I trust you.”

Crowley went still, and for a moment Aziraphale thought he’d ruined it. That he’d misread, wrongly assumed Crowley’s larger intentions. But then Crowley’s expression softened, something complicated working his way across his features, and he kissed Aziraphale even more deeply than before, slower now, his fingers trailing down the soft skin of Aziraphale’s forearm after he’d finished securing him in place.

“Crowley.” With his control gone, with the full enormity of Crowley’s power over him realized, Aziraphale wasn’t sure he could stand another second. “I need you to—can you please—”

Crowley continued his unhurried kisses, his hands still running over the cuffs, down Aziraphale’s arms, over his chest, which heaved as Aziraphale’s breath grew faster. “Can I what, angel? Is there something you’d like me to do?”

Aziraphale shifted his hips, trying desperately to achieve more friction, but Crowley pushed them down with a firm hand, keeping a gap between Aziraphale’s body and his own. “Uh-uh-uh. Patience is a virtue, Aziraphale. Don’t you know that?”

“I have _been_ patient.”

“You didn’t even know this is what you wanted until—what? Two days ago? Don’t talk to _me_ about _patience_.”

“So you knew I wanted to—”

“Well, no, I didn’t _know_ , but you did return this body to me in an awfully horny state.” Crowley gestured at the body that was currently causing Aziraphale to lose his mind. “Made me wonder what you’d been thinking about. And apparently the answer is—“ Crowley grinned a wicked grin. “Leather and snakeskin.”

Aziraphale’s cock had begun to leak, his whole body shaking as Crowley drew out his teasing. “Yes, fine, it was this, all of this, I admit it, I surrender to you, serpent, now can you _please_ , for the love of all that’s holy—”

“All right, then. Since you asked nicely.” Crowley slid back, his hips straddling Aziraphale’s knees, and swallowed the angel’s cock in one go. 

Whatever praises or curses Aziraphale may have uttered were, fortunately, muffled by their total incoherence. He bucked his hips, but Crowley held him down, one arm slung across Aziraphale’s waist as he sucked and licked and _dragged_ his tongue up Aziraphale’s length, his other hand running over the underside of Aziraphale’s balls. Crowley’s tongue was doing something Aziraphale didn’t physically understand but would never have stopped for the sake of the world and all the heavens.

Crowley's hand worked lower, creeping to the sensitive spot leading to Aziraphale's newly manifested prostate. His eyes never left Aziraphale's as he pushed in—one finger, two—apparently magically lubed, with none of the need for awkward practicalities humans must have to endure. Aziraphale bit down on his own lip as Crowley probed, wanting something in his mouth, maybe leather, maybe something he could gnaw and tongue as Crowley undid him, every night for the rest of their endless existences—

Crowley swirled his tongue around Aziraphale's head, timing it with a twisting of his knuckles, and Aziraphale's orgasm hit him like a divine revelation. When he tried to cry out Crowley’s name as he came, all that escaped was a long, obscene yell, a sound he’d never heard emerge from his lips, complemented by Crowley’s own moan as he came up for air and licked Aziraphale's essence from his lips.

Crowley gave his cock one perfunctory tug and came himself, spilling over Aziraphale’s stomach, barely needing to be touched for the release. “I wanted to—” Aziraphale protested weakly.

“You’re rather tied up at the moment, angel,” said Crowley, coming up to press his sticky lips against the angel’s. “And I wouldn’t worry, anyway. We’ve got all the time to try out anything you want to. All the time in the world.” [4]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Or brimstone.
> 
> [2] Certain human accessories aside.
> 
> [3] Read: were granted bodily existence.
> 
> [4] Aziraphale found a very nice neighborhood fetish shop from which to purchase all of his leather accessories, which came to encompass such a variety that they eventually had to manifest another closet when he moved into Crowley’s flat. He couldn’t deny that no one there seemed particularly surprised to see the proprietor of A.Z. Fell & Co. browsing the harnesses.


End file.
